no matter your crimes.”
This made no sense. He had not killed anyone. “Who have I killed, Juanita?”
“The missionaries,” she whispered, then crossed herself. “You killed them all.”
Shock radiated through him, rendering him momentarily unable to speak. “You are sure they are dead? All five?” His voice was quavering.
Juanita nodded jerkily. “The authorities are saying the rebels did the killing. Your brother saw to it that your name was kept from the trouble that has finally grown quiet. But now he plans to kill you so that you cannot do such a thing again. It was an act against God the Father.” She crossed herself once more. “Your brother says that your death is necessary in order to obtain forgiveness for you as well as for himself.” At last she lifted her gaze to his. “I have known you since you were a small boy. I cannot watch you die by the hand of your own brother. Forgiveness or no forgiveness, it is not right.”
“What shall we do about this, Juanita?” He wanted to rise up from his position on the floor. To urge the woman who had known him for most of his life to act now. There was no time to waste. But he did not want to risk frightening her with any sudden moves. In addition, the price could prove to be very high if Juanita’s participation in his escape were discovered before an end could be put to the enemy—his own brother.
“You must hurry back to your home in the north, señor,” Juanita offered. “You must go now. There can be no delay. Eduardo has heard that your brother is already on his way here. He will not follow you to the north, as you well know. You must never return to Mexico. No one else can die in the Reyes’ name. God will not forgive any of us, I fear.”
He had not killed anyone, but Juanita was right about one thing—no one else should die in the Reyes’ name, period. “How am I to go back to the States, Juanita? I have no papers. No money.”
She exhaled a careworn breath. “Eduardo makes a way. Your brother’s private plane waits. You must hurry. I have clothes for you.”
“What will you and Eduardo do when my brother finds me gone from here?” Eduardo, Juanita’s husband, had taken a great risk, as had Juanita.
She shook her head. “There is no time to talk of this. You must go.”
He got up slowly. Even though she knew his intentions, Juanita gasped when he took a step toward the door.
His chest tightened at the idea that anyone would consider him threatening. That was the part of this ugly mess that he hated the most. His own brother had used him to create fear…to kill.
“Juanita,” he said softly, “I have not killed anyone. If the missionaries—” his throated constricted “—are dead, then my brother or his men killed them. You surely know I would never do such a thing.”
Those five men, volunteers from the Basilica de Guadalupe on the north side of Mexico City, had been working with him in a small southern village devastated by last year’s floods. They had rebuilt many homes already, but there was much more to be done. Now those men were dead if what Juanita said was to be believed. What in God’s name did his brother hope to prove?
“I have been thinking that you did not,” Juanita admitted, her voice grave. “But I do not know the truth, señor. Flee this place. If your heart is pure you will flourish again.”
If only it were that easy. “I understand.” His brother could be charming and utterly persuasive when he chose. No one wanted to believe the depth of his depravity.
“You must hurry, mi hijo.”
“Thank you, Juanita.”
Their gazes met briefly in the near darkness. Years had passed since she had last used that endearment. If they survived, he would ensure that her attempt to do the right thing was well compensated. Of the handful who knew of this despicable arrangement, no one else had dared to offer a hand in support. Those who had looked the other way would not be forgotten, either.
He followed Juanita from the prison. His breath sawed in and out of his lungs despite his attempt to stay calm and steady. If they were caught, Juanita would die. His own fate might very well be no better, though most would not dare attempt to use lethal force to stop him for fear of his brother’s reprisal. In any event, what did he have to lose? His fate had already been decided by his brother. A sharp pain pierced his chest at the thought of those men who had lost their lives already. Innocent men who had done nothing more than attempt to help those less fortunate.
His brother would pay this time.
Fury bolted through him. For the first time in his life, he felt certain he could do what needed to be done, putting aside that long-ago promise once and for all.
It was time for his brother’s reign of terror to end.
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